I like to read, as you know, but I find myself all at sea
with poetry. I am a prosaic sort of person, I suppose. I like a narrative,
ideally not too tricksy, although the fantastic and the satirical suit me fine,
better probably than the strictly down-to-earth. But poetry? That’s another
matter. Too insubstantial? Maybe. Too intense? Sometimes. Too opaque? Almost
always.
That’s not to say that I never enjoy poetry. I loved Keats
and the metaphysical poets when we did them at school; that process of analysis
that unlocked the meaning and left you, comprehending, to enjoy the words. I
loved, still love, lots of funny poems for children: Edward Lear and Ogden
Nash, A. A. Milne and Lewis Carroll, Michael Rosen and, oh, lots of others. I
know some by heart, not from learning them, just from reading them over and
over. When I was at school I used to sit near the poetry shelves in the library
and pick up Ted Hughes when I was bored. I couldn’t get much meaning from it,
but there was something in the language and the violence that appealed to the teenage me. And there’s the moment when only a
poem will do, breakups and deaths, that sort of thing, bound to send you
scurrying to the shelf for Emily Dickinson.
But these days, given the choice, do I make for the poetry
shelves in a bookshop? No I do not. Do I keep a slim volume of someone or other
by my bedside? That would be no too. I do not seek out poetry.
Poetry, it seems to me, is rather like faith. I do not get
poetry in the same way that I cannot believe in God or gods. There is no logic
in faith that satisfies me. And yet... I see people who do believe, perfectly
sane, intelligent, admirable people, so logically
there must be something, mustn’t there? And now and then, the faintest whiff of
what it must be like to believe comes my way, funerals, weddings, births, that
sort of thing, all heightened emotions and that feeling that there must be some
greater being organising all this.
How is this like poetry? Poetry is a state of mind, I think.
Some people hear or read poetry and something in it speaks to them, not
necessarily everything, it could just be the sound of the words, or a single
combination of words, or an image or a feeling conveyed. For me, it has always taken more
than this. I need complete understanding, every word accounted for. That’s why
I appreciated those poems I studied and picked apart at school I suppose, and
the read and re-read A. A. Milne et al.
Lately though, I have begun to listen and enjoy poetry without
necessarily understanding each word. I have the writers’ group I belong to to
thank for this. I hear poetry read by its authors and I get to ask questions: “Why
this word?” “Why does this line run on?” “Did you intend this effect?” It’s
extraordinary, thinking about poetry in this way, from the poet's point of view, like something moveable and
changeable.
So I have decided to embrace poetry. I would like poetry to
speak to me. As I rooted around the house for poetry books (I found a few, no
Ted Hughes though), I thought that what people need in order to enjoy poetry
more is just to be exposed to it more. And since I have at my disposal the tame
primary school where I go to run the library and talk to children about books,
I came up with a poetry project I could run at school: lots of poems read, some
learned, lots written. And the teacher I approached said yes, she’d love me to
do this, she didn’t think she was good at poetry. Me neither, I said, but I’m
hoping this will help.
